Cat in a Bag

by Angela M. Sanders

  A tricycle on the porch of a nearby house told her that children lived there. The house’s first floor was still and quiet, but the upstairs windows showed moving figures behind the backlit curtains. Someday she’d like to paint something like that. This reflexive thought tightened her headache further. If she lived to do it, she amended. Some people didn’t survive brain surgery. Or, if they did, they were changed. Couldn’t remember things. Didn’t have full use of their bodies. She flexed her fingers.

  Up the driveway, a child’s bike leaned against the house. It would have to do. In a minute, Adele was cycling up the street. Half an hour later, traveling through dark residential streets, eventually turning to the warehouse district near the river, Adele arrived at Oliver's studio.

  “Forgiveness is a bitter pill,” Father Vincent had said. If she destroyed the painting, Oliver wouldn’t be hurt by its secret. She was protecting him, and in that way showing her forgiveness. Or was that what it was about?

  With family money and the salary of a tenured professor, Oliver could afford to have a house and even a home studio, but he preferred hanging out with other artists in the converted floors of an old storage warehouse. The difference was that while the other artists kept cheap beer and beans and rice in their dorm-sized refrigerators, his full-sized Sub Zero was stocked with Dom Perignon and leftover New York strip from the steakhouse downtown.

  She left the bicycle near the loading dock and pushed the up button for the huge freight elevator. Inside, she watched the wall slip by the car’s slats. She could almost imagine that the elevator stood still, and the building descended around it. At last, it clunked to a stop on Oliver's floor.

  The usual late night sounds of artists at work—a violin concerto from one unit, the Rolling Stones from another—drifted into the corridor. Someone down the hall was hammering something metal. The familiar smells of turpentine and incense mixed with that of warmed-over Indian food.

  Oliver's unit was in the corner with the view, of course. Adele stood in front of his door, wanting, and yet not wanting, to knock. Her heart tightened. So did the muscles cradling her skull. Maybe he wasn’t even home. Maybe her artery would burst and she’d drop dead, here, in front of his door, and he’d find her.

  If that happened, it would be because he was coming back from fooling around with some student, probably, Adele reminded herself. As Oliver's artfully unshaven face appeared in her imagination, Warren’s sturdy face, its neck tattoo creeping to his jaw, replaced it. If she did collapse, Oliver would look around, shocked, worried about his own guilt or how he would explain her body to the neighbors. Not Warren. Warren would carry her inside and call an ambulance and whisper that she’d be all right.

  Adele steeled herself, then knocked. No one answered.

  She pressed her ear to the door to hear Miles Davis on trumpet, and she made out a faint rustling. She knocked again. This time, the door opened. And there stood Oliver.

  The shield she’d put up dropped instantly. She’d remembered him as taller, with a force field of nearly palpable charisma, but he was just a man, no different than Bobby or Mort. Her anxiety dissolved.

  They stared at each other a full three seconds, before a woman’s voice beyond Oliver said, “Oliver? Who is it?”

  Adele pushed her way inside and stood, hands on hips, in the middle of the studio.

  “What are you doing? You can’t be in here,” Oliver said, but made no move to close the gap between them.

  Downtown Carsonville’s lights twinkled through the special weather-resistant windows Oliver had paid to have installed. A young woman—Adele recognized herself in her—sat on the couch arranging her shirt. Two half-empty glasses stood on the coffee table in front of her.

  Adele took in the room. There were the stainless steel appliances the other artists could only dream of having. There was the corner with the king-sized bed. Adele let her eyes sweep quickly past that. There was the drafting table with a partially drawn concept for an installation. Likely the same project he’d been working on five years ago.

  And there was her Stubbs. It hung on the wall adjacent to the door, where its shady depths would mirror a winter storm through the windows across from it. She didn’t often get to see her work out in the world. It had been five years since she’d painted this one. Not bad, really, and the horse’s eyes had an especially keen, vivid look.

  “Um,” said the girl on the couch. “Should I go?”

  “Stay,” Oliver said.

  Adele raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mind her knowing—everything?”

  “Like what?” He glanced back at the couch.

  “Like when—”

  “Okay, go,” he amended.

  The girl downed the rest of her wine in a gulp—she was smart, it was probably a nice Bordeaux—then stopped. A look of recognition came over her, and she set down the glass. “Wait.”

  “What?” Oliver said.

  “You.” She swallowed. “Aren’t you the prison escapee I saw on the news?”

  Adele froze her with a stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You told me she’d been your student, that—”

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  The girl opened her mouth, and Oliver shook his head. “But I, she’s—”

  “No, she’s not.”

  The girl would believe whatever Oliver told her. Adele had, too. He could tell her she’d been born in Persia, and she’d start studying Farsi. Or that he’d never felt love like this for anyone before her. Or, he could tell her she had no talent.

  With barely a backward glance, the girl shrugged on her coat and slipped out the door.

  Oliver folded his arms over his chest and stood, legs wide. Again, Adele thought of Warren. When Warren stood like that, he wasn’t messing around. Oliver only played the tough guy.

  “She’s right. You’re supposed to be in prison.”

  “And yet I’m not.”

  “I could call the police right now, and you’d be put away.”

  She stepped forward. “You could. But you won’t. I’d tell them about your—your habits with students. Besides, you want to know why I’m here.”

  A look of uncertainty cracked his facade. His gaze traveled from Adele to the empty wine glass and back to Adele. “What do you want?”

  “The Stubbs.”

  “What?” Oliver's hands and jaw dropped in unison. “You’re joking.”

  “I want the Stubbs,” Adele repeated.

  “What is it about that painting? An insurance detective called twice this week and said it was a fake.” He adopted the “wise professor” look Adele remembered so well. “She was wrong, of course. Any numskull can see it’s an original. She was probably on the make. Has a market lined up for it.”

  At one time, she’d glowed when he’d deigned to share his nuggets of insight with her. Now, her stomach turned. “I painted it.”

  “What?”

  “I painted it. If you know I broke out of prison, you know I’m an art forger. I forged the Stubbs.” She hadn’t wanted to tell him, because she hadn’t wanted him to discover her secret. Now here she was, telling it all.

  “I’m an expert in eighteenth-century British art, Adele. I know an original when I see it. Plus, it came certified.”

  “You always said my drafting skills were good.”

  “Technically proficient, yes.” He wandered to the couch and sat.

  Now that he was on old ground—putting her down—he was at ease. She waited for the familiar pang of hurt, but it didn’t come. Amazing. On some level, she must no longer believe him. “You think that painting lacks soul?”

  “Of course not. It’s a Stubbs. I told you, I have the paperwork. I’m not sure what kind of scam the insurance company was running, but no” —here he let out an irritating chuckle— “it’s genuine, all right.”

  Marty was awfully good with the forged certificates of authenticity, she had to admit. She shrugged. “I’ll prove I painted it.
”

  “Delly—” he began, using a nickname no one else called her.

  “My name’s Adele.”

  “Well, whatever. You’re delusional. You don’t have the talent for this kind of work.”

  Again she marveled. At one time, these words would have devastated her. They had devastated her. He’d kept her so securely in his harem of girls he could denigrate to boost his ego that she’d given up her own work. Her time in jail to think, her few days at the Villa with her paints, just those few hours talking with Warren—they’d changed her. Instead of cringing, fearing another blow, she was curiously unharmed.

  “I’m not delusional anymore. Take that painting off the wall,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I said to take it down. I’ll prove I painted it.”

  “No, I’ll prove you didn’t. You’ll see his signature and the characteristic marks on the back from his studio.” His voice became patronizing.

  He lifted the heavy canvas from the wall. She remembered painting it so well. She’d driven to the racetrack’s stables and run her hands over a stallion’s firm jaw and shoulders, letting her fingers dip into the creases his muscles formed. She’d listened to Yo-Yo Ma on the cello as she’d worked and felt she’d understood the artist in a way that no class or textbook or slides of his paintings could impart.

  “Now turn it on its side.”

  “What?”

  “I said to turn the painting on its side.” As he complied, she said, “Do you have a flashlight? Get it. And turn off the lights.” She marveled at the words that came out of her own mouth. For years, she’d feared he’d see what she was now willingly showing him.

  “I won’t do it.” He leaned the painting against the wall. “You want to steal my Stubbs, don’t you? You need the cash to skip town.”

  “It’s not real, Oliver. It’s a fake.”

  “There you go again.”

  “All I ask is that you do as I say. Get a flashlight and look at it. You’ll have your proof.”

  “Fine.” He went to the kitchen for a flashlight and turned off the overhead light, leaving the lamp on the end table on.

  Adele faced the painting. She knew that behind her Carsonville’s skyline glittered over the river, a sight she loved. Oliver could call the police, and she might never see that skyline again. But she didn’t turn around. She clicked on the flashlight and held it at an angle so it caught the delicate relief of the painting’s surface.

  “Look. Do you see what it says?” she asked.

  “I see something in the painting’s texture, but I’m not sure.”

  “Keep looking. Tilt the painting a bit more.”

  “It’s words.” Oliver sounded genuinely excited. Well, that would change. “Stubbs is a master. No one has uncovered his messages before. I wonder if his other paintings carry messages? I could make my career on this discovery.”

  Adele was unmoved. “Read it.”

  “Give me the flashlight.” He snatched it from her hand. “I can’t believe this. This will turn the art establishment upside down.”

  “Read.”

  “Oliver Degraff….” His voice dropped off.

  “Keep going.”

  “Oliver Degraff’s weenie is the size of a…”

  “…fingerling potato,” she finished. “Convinced now that I painted it?”

  He slumped to the couch. “I don’t believe it.”

  At last Adele turned toward the skyline. The lights twinkling from office buildings and the cell phone towers on the ridge all seemed to sparkle for her. What was it Father Vincent had said? Something about the calm of forgiveness. She felt it. Now she was truly free.

  “I guess I’ll be going,” she said. “You can keep the Stubbs after all.”

  31

  Adele left the borrowed bicycle where she’d found it and slipped through the Villa’s side entrance. She wanted to sing or dance, but she kept her movements contained, knowing she’d smile as she slept.

  She skipped up the stairs. All the rooms were dark. And as far as she could tell, no one knew she had been outside the Villa. She wished she could tell Warren about it, but it was too soon. Someday, if she survived the surgery, she’d talk about it with him.

  Funny, until now she’d gone through the motions of preparing for the surgery because Gilda and the others wanted her to. Not because she wanted to. Now, she did. Even if she had to wait out her prison sentence—plus whatever they’d stick her with for escaping—it would be worth it. Eventually she would be free and able to paint. In prison, she could teach drawing. She’d help other women feel confident about what they could do.

  The Villa’s faded wallpaper and worn carpet welcomed her. Home. People who cared about her. She had the feeling of having turned a corner in her life.

  She opened her bedroom door and stopped cold. There, seated on the bed with an expression that could freeze lava, was Warren.

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “What?” was all she could think of to reply.

  “You tripped the camera on your way out. You didn’t remember it was there?”

  She hadn’t. It had been too easy. She should have known. For the first time, Adele had a sense for what Warren would have been like as a correctional officer.

  “I had to take care of something,” she said.

  “And put the entire Villa at risk.”

  “I was careful.”

  “You’re a fine artist, not an escape artist. Someone is watching us, you know. All they need is to catch a glimpse of you coming and going, and we’re sunk.” Fire leapt into his voice. “You think everyone is helping you here because they have nothing better to do?”

  “I—”

  “You think they want to end their days in prison?” He stood. “That’s what you’re doing to them.”

  Adele refused to be cowed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over now, and no one saw me. You need to leave. I’m going to bed.”

  “So, your business didn’t involve another person. Someone, for instance, who knows you’re an escapee.”

  She turned her head away.

  “See?” He didn’t even wait for her to reply. “He calls the police, they remember the tip they got yesterday, and they’re back here and won’t fall for our ploy this time.”

  Her lip started to tremble. “He won’t call. I know he won’t.” In the thrill of finding her painting, she hadn’t even thought he might press charges. He’d seemed so—so broken when she’d left him. He might change his mind. He did have a temper. “I told you, it’s fine.” She wanted to believe it.

  “You’re coming with me.” Warren grabbed her by the waistband of her pants and pulled her out the door.

  “You will not manhandle me.” She flopped to a dead weight. Sure, it would be easy enough for Warren to pick her up, but if he did, he’d know it was against her will.

  Instead, he let her go. “You care about the Villa, right?”

  She kept her eyes on the carpet, but nodded.

  “Then you understand that staying in your bedroom is asking for trouble. It’s the first place the police would look.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “You’re coming to the basement.”

  This got her attention. “The basement?”

  “Down by the boiler. I’ll bring a mattress.”

  “I refuse to be locked up in the basement.”

  He held her firmly but gently by the upper arm. “It’s the only place that’s safe. For you, and for everyone else here. You’re coming downstairs.”

  She could scream, but for what? No one in the Villa would trust her. Not now. She released her breath slowly. “All right.”

  Warren led her down the quiet hall to the stairs. With a hand firmly under her arm, he walked her down the three flights to the basement. He unlocked the basement’s back room and pulled the chain to turn on the single lightbulb suspended from the ceiling.

  “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

  She
looked at his armchair with his shape molded into it, and the framed photo of Goldie the pit bull he kept on the bookshelf crammed with thick paperbacks. She doubted this was what the doctor would have recommended for the night before brain surgery.

  A few minutes later, Warren returned with a rolled-up pad under one arm and blankets over the other.

  “You can sleep in your clothes. Take your shower in the morning before you go to the hospital.” He laid the mattress on the floor and tossed the blankets, except for one, on it. The last blanket he kept over his arm.

  What had happened to sweet, goofy Warren? Where was the Warren who talked about adventure and read romance novels and loved animals? She didn’t know this man. She might as well have been talking to a tree stump for all the emotion he showed.

  The thing is, he was right. Father Vincent had tried to warn her, but she didn’t understand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was selfish. It was one of my paintings. I thought I had to destroy it.”

  “Why? Why was it more important than all of us?”

  “My surgery is tomorrow. I might not have another chance.”

  Warren appeared to struggle to keep in his anger—or was it another emotion? “Claudine and Gilda are taking care of that. I don’t understand. Why does getting the paintings back matter so much to you? I mean, for real. It’s not just about respect for the artist, is it?”

  She looked at her feet, then back at him. “No, you’re right. That’s not all. It’s embarrassing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I, well, I hid messages in the paintings.” At Warren’s puzzled look, she added, “I had a grudge, and I used the paintings to get revenge. Oil paints leave a texture on the canvas, and I figured out how to manipulate it to write words.”

  “What kind of words?”

  The boiler fired up with a whoosh, and the pipes groaned with the fresh surge of warm water. Adele stood straighter. Either he would understand, or he wouldn’t. “They were insults about an art professor I had an affair with.”